Well pardon me if I
invent fictions to make myself
less rational:
last night the pushmmpullyou force
of it all gave way and it
crumbled heels over head over
arms over and over until
you were lying in a valley
covering your eyes, crying
at the pleasure (and weeping
for the pain) of a broken crown.

Can you forgive me this errant peccadillo?
I cooked it up wakeless because
if I could jump I could fly I could touch the sky
I could make a song I could soar I could find
synonyms and I could
stop tying rock to a string
and measuring the cliffs.

Tags: poetry